Revolutions are Always Best With Russian Vodka
by CherryDice
Summary: 2028. A small settlement in what used to be Russia has declared it's sovereignty from the Holy Britannian Empire. Dwindling on supplies, men, and hope, it is up to an ill-prepared "King" to rally the support of his subjects before his House of Cards folds within itself. Can he achieve the unprecedented, or be remembered as another foolish revolutionary? Only time can tell. (AU)


His scepter swayed in the loose grip of his palm, it's gold plating reflecting a dazzling display of lights from a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. He wore a look that could be mistaken for boredom, but "neutral" would be a better describing word. His eyes bore down on his feet, clad in white boots that stretched up to his knees. The laces were strung tight with needlepoint precision, never straying from perfect symmetry. His gaze was intense, but it's intensity was interrupted as they strayed from his boots to look at a man whom was approaching him.

"It appears the Britannians have ceased their attack momentarily, Your Highness."

The scepter stopped swaying, his grip tightening at the words. His interest had clearly been piqued as he straightened his posture and pushed aside a strand of blonde hair that fell into his eyes. His opal eyes sparkled with thought as he opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it once more.

"Have we received word as to whether or not they wish to negotiate regarding hostages?"

"Not at this time, no."

"Tch." He sighed, resting his forehead in his palm. "Very well. Inform me if the Britannians try to reach us on any matters involving hostages. I don't want to let those bastards have Kilford for any longer than I have to."

"Yes, Your Highness!"

...

His head throbbed, waves of pain coming every time his heart beated. He brought a hand up to massage his temples, using the other to shakily reach for a corked bottle on a table in front of him. He unsteadily uncorked the bottle, wincing as a particularly bad wave of agony pulsed through his cranium. He brought the rim of the decanter to his lips, and in an over exaggerated motion raised it into the air. He gulped voraciously, until he was sucking for air instead of liquid. He exhaled, allowing his body to sink further into the silk loveseat he sat on. The throbbing lessened, and whilst the pain was still there, it was no longer debilitating. A glass coffee table stood before him, covered in different parchments with somewhat illegible scrawl written on them. He picked up what looked to be the largest paper, one alive with different vibrant colors. His eyes glanced past the Atlantic Ocean and the sprawling European Union, stopping only as he neared the top right corner of the map. A large circle had been crudely drawn along the East Siberian Sea in red pen. In the margins of the text surrounding the circle, a sentence had been penned in capital letters.

"THE NATION OF SHAYOU. FOUNDED JUNE 19TH, 2027."

He paused, his eyes fixated on the tiny bit of territory the circle claimed Shayou owned. It was mostly bereft of identifying markers, with only the tiny settlement of Chersky and the mouth of the Kolyma river noted. The vibrant colors had faded, especially where the creases had been folded, "RUSSIA" appearing just above the marked position of Chersky. The small dot marking the settlement had a large, poorly drawn star penned over it.

" _Heh. A town of 2,000 trying to pass itself off as worthy of being a capital. It's pathetic, really."_ He returned the paper to where he had it before, and diverted his attention to a collection of flimsily secured papers. Although the paper was still pristine in color, its edges were ravaged, rips and tears extending into the print. Stamped at the top in large cursive were the words "BRITANNIAN POST." The date located next to the header indicated that it had been released to the public on the 19th of June, a Thursday. He allowed his eyes to dawdle on the smaller features that surrounded the headlining story. He'd already gone over every centimeter of the paper a dozen times over, so the Rook's "shocking" upset of the Turbines didn't elicit any response. Nor did the news that a prominent weatherman had been murdered by his wife for forgetting their anniversary. Even the cute animals section couldn't attract his attention for more than a few heartbeats. It was only when he had finished reading the entirety of the sub articles did he look at the overwhelmingly large headlining article. The title was inscribed in a font twice the size of the header's, each letter displayed in a bright blue in an otherwise black and white publication. Its reader noticeably grimaced as he read the caption.

"REBEL LEADER HANLEY SENTOKI DECLARES SOVEREIGNTY FROM BRITANNIAN EMPIRE."

The paper crumpled slightly as the man tightened his grip, his jaw locking in displeasure.

" _Hanley, you truly were an ambitious fellow weren't you?"_ He set the paper down next to him, allowing his eyes to linger for a moment longer before turning his attention to an oak armory situated in the far corner of the room. Each one sparkled as bright as the tears he was wiping away from the corner of his eyelids. Although for a moment it looked like he was about to get to his feet, he instead shook his head and looked away from the cabinet. " _Can't become too reliant on the poison, or I'll end up a drunken sot."_ He instead glanced at a painting hung across from him, splotches of color contrasting heavily to the grey concrete wall it dangled from. He wasn't a connoisseur of the arts by any means, but a trusted advisor of his had insisted that purchasing something "abstract" would make their headquarters look far more sophisticated. This purchase was in vain, for their operating base was anything but sophisticated. The remnants of an old hotel, they hadn't taken the effort to remove the signage advertising the long defunct establishment. The inside was tolerable regarding aesthetic. Minorly damaged rugs and tapestries lined the walls and floors; so if one wasn't observant of details such as burnt corners and stained fabric they could mistake it for a meagerly accommodating palace. The hallways bustled with activity, people carrying boxes and conversing on phones common sights. Some wore suits and similarly fancy clothing, but for the most part the dress was casual. The only reoccurring dresswear belonged to those brandishing weapons. These guards could be identified easily aerially, for the purple berets sat upon their hand stood out from the masses of natural hair colors. The bright orange uniform they bore was so luminous in color it was almost blinding to look at. For the most part they were intermingled with the crowds, their demeanors relaxed as they conversed with those whom passed. As the floors reached greater heights however, the foot traffic slowed, and the guards seldom left their pre allotted patrols.

The official "Military HQ" was located on the twelfth floor, the second highest in the towering structure. Figures hunched over screens, discarded energy drink cans and stained coffee mugs strewn about metal desks. A mass of jumbled conversation flowed freely through the airspace, bits of gossip and debates intermingling so that no distinctive discussion could be made out. Monitors and trackers were in total disarray, some situated isolated in corners and others having inches between them and their neighbor. A larger display hung high on the back wall, projecting a blown up image identical to that of the circled area on the map. Multitudes of different strings of letters and numbers flashed momentarily before being replaced by another multitude, meaningless to one not versed in their significance. The terrain pictured was far more well documented than the paper map's, listing different streams and hilltops overlooked by even the most detailed topographical depictions. There was an unordinary ratio of guards to staff in this room, with the guards outnumbering the machine operators two to one. Things were operating in a haphazard yet methodical manner, with well dressed guards and operators alike entering the room at intervals to relieve their exhausted compatriots.

The antiquated analog clock hanging from one of the walls in the command center read "12:32" when the sharply dressed man entered the chamber, accompanied by a sizeable escort. The conversation dwindled to non-existence within moments, with everyone in the room addressing their attention to his presence. Without exception, all brought their right hand diagonal that of their face in a salute. It was eerily clockwork, though it didn't last for long; for the opal eyed man raised his own hand up, and with a flick of the wrist dismissed them. The room had life breathed back into it, the operators returning back to their osteoporosis causing positions, the guards resuming their security measures. A young looking woman approached the mass of guards, who let her pass until she was standing but a foot away from their escort.

"King Akaru! What brings you here today?" She spoke briskly but politely, her eyes darting from the opal eyes of Akaru down to the clipboard clutched in her left hand.

"I figured the staff in here could use the open encouragement from the man they work under." He stepped past her, studying the map displayed on the screen. "Tell me, where is Terufumi's Squad located at?"

"Aki Terufumi's Squad has garrisoned itself in Chersky." She hesitated not for a moment, the sentence rolling off her tongue in a second.

"And Chibiya's?"

"The same as Terufumi's. Ishibashi dispatched them a detachment of Faliero Knightmares a few hours ago, your Highness." She started scribbling something on a blank piece of notepad before capping her pen.

"I've told you many times Felicia, someone who goes back as far as you do with this country needn't call me Highness." He turned away from the wall back to Felicia, and placed his palm on her shoulder. "I'm sorry we haven't talked too much recently; I know I haven't been too involved with the frontline operations in the recent days."

The contact between his hand and her shoulder made up her look up, she wore a slightly startled look on her face, as if she was surprised at the closeness Akaru was displaying. "W-Well, it's understandable, Your- I mean, Akaru. We all took Edward's death rather hard." She drew away, using the pretense of needing to write another note as an excuse.

Akaru sighed, taking full note of her withdrawal. "Nevertheless, I intend to be far more active in the coming-" His reassurance was interrupted by a sudden raise of volume in the room, as well as a shocked yell from a red eyed operator.

"Squad 2-1 has been eliminated! The Britannians have resumed a frontal attack on the eastern flank!"

"What?!" It was now Akaru's turn to be brisk, as he turned on his heels to face the screen once more. "Someone! Get me communications with Specialist Taru!" His voice, soft moments before. now carried a domineering tone to it. A radio was in his hands within seconds, raised to his mouth in three. He flicked the power switch with his thumb, and the moment the green light lit up he began barking orders. "Taru! Dispatch the entirety of the Centurion Guards to assist Garcia's squad! We cannot allow the Britannians to encompass our forces!" Seconds passed with no radio traffic, Akaru's breath bated for any response.

"Roger! Centurion Guards moving to assist Felix Garcia's squadron! ETA is 2 minutes, Your Highness." The transmission was garbled, a byproduct of the outdated technology, but legible.

"Taru, what is the status of the Centurion Guards?"

"We're all green, Your Highness! Daniel's Paron Knightmare sustained minor dama- AH!" A frightening noise emanated from the speakers of the radio, before being replaced by a far more frightening silence.

"Taru!?" Akaru pressed his face against the radio, hoping in vain to pick up the slightest indication of sound, "Taru, come in!" Seconds went by, two turning into twenty, then thirty. The radio remained silent. 'Taru, Leader of the Centurion Guards, come in! Natalia, Second in Command of the Centurion Guards, come in!" His breathing heightened, his brow becoming damp with sweat. "Ismirala, Marshal of the Centurion Guards, come in! Anyone, for the love of god, come in!"

The radio remained silent.

 **(And there it is ladies and gentlemen. This is the first chapter of this story and the first chapter for this new account of mine. I figured I'd start off anew here, and considering my love of Code Geass I thought it to be the best one to make a debut with. Anyhow, I hope you've enjoyed this little introduction, if so, please do send me your thoughts via the review system or even through Private Messaging. If not, still please send me your thoughts! I am always looking to improve, and the feedback of my readers is the best way to do that!)**

( _Credit to Ennuh for the Title Image)_


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